by Jack Vance
Amazon Spotlight Reviews
Avg. Customer Review:
Wonderful science-fiction adventure series, November 7, 1997
This book contains 4 excellent short SF novels by the masterful Jack Vance. Vance’s descriptions and distinctive, elegant dialog combine to take the reader to an alternate reality in ways that very few writers can match. These books are perhaps my favorites by Vance. The alien beings depicted here are strange and fascinating, and Adam Reith is a resourceful, inspiring hero.
A classic science fiction adventure series., July 17, 1996
If you’re a fan of Jack Vance, this may be his best series. If not, this is an excellent introduction to this master of adventure SF and fantasy. In the first ten pages of the first book, Terran explorer Adam Reith’s ship is destroyed by mysterious missiles, and he is stranded on the unknown planet Tschai. Tschai has been colonized by several mutually antagonistic alien races; they have imported primitive humans for use as servants; over millenia, several human subspecies have evolved, symbiotic to the various breeds of alien. Our hero gets to spend the next four volumes criss-crossing the planet from one cliff-hanging adventure to another in search of an intact spacecraft that he can buy, borrow, or steal. Gorgeous prose and intricate, fully realized alien cultures raise this above the level of a simple adventure series. Highly recommended
Outstanding!!!, July 19, 2002
First, let me state that Jack Vance is my favorite SF author, so maybe I’m biased. That said, I believe this series (and each individual book in it) is superb.
The plot involves an Earthman, Adam Reith, who gets stranded on a planet occupied by four advanced alien races. Reith must use every resource of his mind and body to avoid not only capture and death, but to procure a spaceship to take him home. Along the way, he gains allies who come to believe in his quest.
As usual, Vance has succeeded in creating a world far removed from our own in both technology and temperament, rich in both complexity and credibility. Reith is the quintessential Vancian hero, relying as much on his mental resources as his muscle; he tends to outwit and outmaneuver his opponents as opposed to simply over-powering them, but he has no problem in asserting his physical prowess when necessary. The action moves along at a breathtaking pace, with memorable characters and events at every turn of the page. I can’t recommend it highly enough.
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Table of Contents
CITY OF THE CHASCH
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SERVANTS OF THE WANKH
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE DIRDIR
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE PNUME
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
End of the Planet of Adventure Omnibus
CITY OF THE CHASCH
TO ONE SIDE of the Explorator IV flared a dim and aging star, Carina 4269; to the other hung a single planet, gray-brown under a heavy blanket of atmosphere. The star was distinguished only by a curious amber cast to its light. The planet was somewhat larger than Earth, attended by a pair of small moons with rapid periods of orbit. An almost typical K2 star, an unremarkable planet, but for the men aboard the Explorator IV the system was a source of wonder and fascination.
In the forward control pod stood Commander Marin, Chief Officer Deale, Second Officer Walgrave: three men similarly trim, erect, brisk of movement, wearing the same neat white uniforms, and so much in each other’s company that the wry, offhand intonations in which they spoke, the half-sarcastic, half-facetious manner in which they phrased their thoughts, were almost identical. With scanscopes--hand-held binocular photomultiphers, capable of enormous magnification and amplification-they looked across to the planet.
Walgrave commented, “At casual observation, a habitable planet. Those clouds are surely water-vapor.”
“If signals emanate from a world,” said Chief Officer Deale, “we almost automatically assume it to be inhabited. Habitability follows as a natural consequence of habitation.”
Commander Marin gave a dry chuckle. “Your logic, usually irrefutable, is at fault. We are presently two hundred and twelve light-years from Earth. We received the signals twelve light-years out; hence they were broadcast two hundred years ago. If you recall, they halted abruptly. This world may be habitable; it may be inhabited; it may be both. But not necessarily either.”
Deale gave his head a doleful shake. “On this basis, we can’t even be sure that Earth is inhabited. The tenuous evidence available to us-”
Beep beep went the communicator. “Speak!” called Commander Marin.
The voice of Dant, the communications engineer, came into the pod: “I’m picking up a fluctuating field; I think it’s artificial but I can’t tune it in. It just might be some sort of radar.”
Marin frowned, rubbed his nose with his knuckle. “I’ll send down the scouts, then we’ll back away, out of range.”
Marin spoke a code-word, gave orders to the scouts Adam Reith and Paul Waunder. “Fast as possible; we’re being detected. Rendezvous at System axis, up, Point D as in Deneb.”
“Right, sir. System axis, up, Point D as in Deneb. Give us three minutes.”
Commander Marin went to the macroscope and began an anxious search of the planet’s surface, clicking through a dozen wavelengths. “There’s a window at about 3000 angstroms, nothing good. The scouts will have to do all of it.”
“I’m glad I never trained as a scout,” remarked Second Officer Walgrave. “Otherwise I also might be sent down upon strange and quite possibly horrid planets.”
“A scout isn’t trained,” Deale told him. “He exists: half acrobat, half mad scientist, half cat burglar, half-”
“That’s several halves too many.”
“Just barely adequate. A scout is a man who likes a change.”
The scouts aboard the Explorator IV were Adam Reith and Paul Waunder. Both were men of resource and stamina; each was master of many skills; there the resemblance ended. Reith was an inch or two over average height, dark-haired, with a broad forehead, prominent cheekbones, ra
ther gaunt cheeks where showed an occasional twitch of muscle. Waunder was compact, balding, blond, with features too ordinary for description. Waunder was older by a year or two; Reith however, held senior rank, and was in nominal command of the scout-boat: a miniature spaceship thirty feet long, carried in a clamp under the Explorator’s stern.
In something over two minutes they were aboard the scoutboat. Waunder went to the controls; Reith sealed the hatch, pushed the detach-button. The scout-boat eased away from the great black hull. Reith took his seat, and as he did so a flicker of movement registered at the corner of his vision. He glimpsed a gray projectile darting up from the direction of the planet, then his eyes were battered by a tremendous purple-white dazzle.
There was rending and wrenching, violent acceleration as Waunder clutched convulsively upon the throttle, and the scout-boat went careening down toward the planet.
Where the Explorator IV had ridden space now drifted a curious object: the nose and stern of a spaceship, joined by a few shreds of metal, with a great void between, through which burnt the old yellow sun Carina 4269. Along with crew and technicians, Commander Marin, Chief Officer Deale, Second Officer Walgrave had become fleeting atoms of carbon, oxygen and hydrogen, their personalities, brisk mannerisms, and jocularity now only memories.
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
THE SCOUT-BOAT, STRUCK rather than propelled by the shockwave, tumbled bow over stern down toward the gray and brown planet, with Adam Reith and Paul Waunder bumping from bulkhead to bulkhead in the control cabin.
Reith, only half-conscious, managed to seize a stanchion. Pulling himself to the panel, he struck down the stabilization switch. Instead of a smooth hum there was hissing and thumping; nevertheless the wild windmilling motion gradually was damped.
Reith and Waunder dragged themselves to their seats, made themselves fast. Reith asked, “Did you see what I saw?”
“A torpedo.”
Reith nodded. “The planet is inhabited.”
“The inhabitants are far from cordial. That was a rough reception.”
“We’re a long way from home.” Reith looked along the line of non-signifying dials and dead indicator lights. “Nothing seems to be functioning. We’re going to crash, unless I can make some swift repairs.” He limped aft to the engine room, to discover that a spare energy-cell, improperly stowed, had crushed a connection box, creating a chaotic tangle of melted leads, broken crystals, fused composites.
“I can fix it,” Reith told Waunder, who had come aft to inspect the mess. “In about two months with luck. Providing the spares are intact.”
“Two months is somewhat too long,” said Waunder. “I’d say we have two hours before we hit atmosphere.”
“Let’s get to work.”
An hour and a half later they stood back, eyeing the jury-rig with doubt and dissatisfaction. “With luck we can land in one piece,” said Reith gloomily. “You go forward, put some power into the lifts; I’ll see what happens.”
A minute passed. The propulsors hummed; Reith felt the pressure of deceleration. Hoping that the improvisations were at least temporarily sound, he went forward and resumed his seat. “What’s it look like?”
“Short range, not too bad. We’ll hit atmosphere in about half an hour, somewhat under critical velocity. We can come down to a soft landing-I hope. The long-range prognosis-not so good. Whoever hit the ship with a torpedo can follow us down with radar. Then what?”
“Nothing good,” said Reith.
The planet below broadened under their view: a world dimmer and darker than Earth, bathed in tawny golden light. They now could see continents and oceans, clouds, storms: the landscape of a mature world.
The atmosphere whined around the car; the temperature gauge rose sharply toward the red mark. Reith cautiously fed more power through the makeshift circuits. The boat slowed, the needle quivered, sank back toward a comfortable level. There came a soft report from the engine room and the boat began to fall free once more.
“Here we go again,” said Reith. “Well, it’s up to the airfoils now. Better get into ejection harness.” He swung out the sideflaps, extended the elevators and rudder and the boat hissed down at a slant. He asked, “How does the atmosphere check out?”
Waunder read the various indices of the analyzer. “Breathable. Close to Earth normal.”
“That’s one small favor.”
Looking through scanscopes, they could now observe detail. Below spread a wide plain or a steppe, marked here and there with low relief and vegetation. “No sign of civilization,” said Waunder. “Not below, at any rate. Maybe up there, by the horizon-those gray spots ...”
“If we can land the boat, if no one disturbs us while we rebuild the control system, we’ll be in good shape ... But these airfoils aren’t intended for a fast landing in the rough. We’d better try to stall her down and eject at the last instant.”
“Right,” said Waunder. He pointed. “That looks like a forest-vegetation of some sort. The ideal spot for a crash.”
“Down we go.”
The boat slanted down; the landscape expanded. The fronds of a dank black forest reached into the air ahead of them.
“On the count of three: eject,” said Reith. He pulled the boat up into a stall, braking its motion. “One-two-three. Eject!”
The ejection ports opened; the seats thrust; out into the air snapped Reith. But where was Waunder? His harness had fouled, or the seat had failed to eject properly; and he dangled helplessly outside the boat. Reith’s parachute opened, swung him up pendulum-wise. On the way down he struck a glossy black limb of a tree. The blow dazed him; he swung at the end of his parachute shrouds. The boat careened through the trees, plowed into a bog, Paul Waunder hung motionless in his harness.
There was silence except for the creaking of hot metal, a faint hiss from somewhere under the boat.
Reith stirred, kicked feebly. The motion sent pain tearing through his shoulders and chest; he desisted and hung limp.
The ground was fifty feet below. The sunlight, as he had noted before, seemed rather more dim and yellow than the sunlight of Earth, and the shadows held an amber overtone. The air was aromatic with the scent of unfamiliar resins and oils; he was caught in a tree with glossy black limbs and brittle black foliage which made a rattling sound when he moved. He could look along the broken swath to the bog, where the boat sat almost on an even keel, Waunder hanging head-down from the ejection hatch, his face only inches from the muck. If the boat should settle, he would smother-if he was still alive even now. Reith struggled frantically to untangle himself from his harness. The pain made him dizzy and sick; there was no strength in his hands, and when he raised his arms there were clicking sounds in his shoulders. He was helpless to free himself, let alone assist Waunder. Was he dead? Reith could not be sure. Waunder, he thought, had twitched feebly.
Reith watched intently. Waunder was slipping slowly into the mire. In the ejection seat was a survival kit with weapons and tools. With his broken bones he could not raise his arms to reach the clasp. If he detached himself from the shrouds he would fall and kill himself... No help for it. Broken shoulder, broken collarbone or not, he must open the ejection seat, bring forth the knife and the coil of rope.
There was a sound, not too far distant, of wood striking wood. Reith desisted in his efforts, hung quietly. A troop of men armed with fancifully long rapiers and heavy hand-catapults marched quietly, almost furtively, below.
Reith stared dumbfounded, suspecting hallucination. The cosmos seemed partial to biped races, more or less anthropoid; but these were true men: people with harsh, strong features, honey-colored skin, blond, blond-brown, blond-gray hair and bushy drooping mustaches. They wore complicated garments: loose trousers of striped brown and black cloth, dark blue or dark red shirts, vests of woven metal strips, short black capes. Their hats were black leather, folded and creased with out-turned earflaps, each with a silver emblem four inches across at the front of a tall crown. R
eith watched in amazement. Barbarian warriors, a wandering band of cutthroats: but true men, nonetheless, here on this unknown world over two hundred light-years from Earth!
The warriors passed quietly below, stealthy and furtive. They paused in the shadows to survey the boat, then the leader, a warrior younger than the rest, no more than a youth and lacking a mustache, stepped out into the open and examined the sky. He was joined by three older men, wearing globes of pink and blue glass on their helmets, who also searched the sky with great care. Then the youth signaled to the others, and all approached the boat.
Paul Waunder raised his hand in the feeblest of salutes. One of the men with the glass globes snatched up his catapult, but the youth yelled an angry order and the man sullenly turned away. One of the warriors cut the parachute shrouds, let Waunder fall to the ground.
The youth gave other orders; Waunder was picked up and carried to a dry area.
The youth now turned to investigate the space-boat. Boldly he clambered up on the hull and looked in through the ejection ports.
The older men with the pink and blue globes stood back in the shadows, muttering dourly through their drooping whiskers and glowering toward Waunder. One of them clapped his hand to the emblem on his hat as if the object had jerked or made a sound. Then, at once, as if stimulated by the contact, he stalked upon Waunder, drew his rapier, brought it flickering down. To Reith’s horror Paul Waunder’s head rolled free of his torso, and his blood gushed forth to soak into the black soil.
The youth seemed to sense the act and swung about. He cried out in fury, leaped to the ground, marched over to the murderer. The youth snatched forth his own rapier, flicked it and the flexible end slashed in to cut away the emblem from the man’s hat. The youth picked it up, and pulling a knife from his boot hacked savagely at the soft silver, then cast it down at the murderer’s feet with a spate of bitter words. The murderer, cowed, picked up the emblem and moved sullenly off to the side.
